


I'll Be Here Tomorrow

by blotsandcreases



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Community: valar-morekinks, Gen, Pre-Canon, a piece of pie is harmed in this fic, patriarchal feudal times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 06:25:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9309437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blotsandcreases/pseuds/blotsandcreases
Summary: This had become Lyanna's habit: waiting for Mother to arrive from a hunt.For the Round 12 of valar-morekinks on livejournal: Lyanna Stark pre-Tower of Joy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Tinashe's [Bet](https://genius.com/Tinashe-bet-lyrics).

One autumn morning Lyanna was perched on a stack of crates by the kitchens, munching on a cream cake as she waited.

Every now and then Old Nan would come over to fuss with the way Lyanna was sitting or brush away the crumbs caught on Lyanna’s furs and hat. Lyanna had to wear a hat now. Maester Walys had announced two moons ago, shortly after Lyanna’s seventh name day, that summer was over and that they would have a brief autumn.

“Do stop swinging your legs, child,” squinting Old Nan told her. “That’s a precarious way you’re sitting, that is.”

Lyanna licked her fingers and stopped swinging her legs. The Hunter’s Gate remained closed.

It was a very special day. Brandon and Ned had visited home before winter set in and made travel difficult and dangerous. So all her brothers were home for today, which was Mother’s name day.

Lyanna had been so young when Brandon was fostered to one of Father’s bannermen that she cried so hard when he had to say goodbye. Then Ned had been next the following year, off to the farther Vale of Arryn. It turned out that Brandon’s visits, though rare, were more often than Ned’s.

“No, you can’t just wait all night, little one,” Mother had told her, after Lyanna had decided that she could wait up by her window for Brandon’s next visit. “Your brother won’t return _tomorrow_. It will be for a while.”

“I’ll be back sooner than you think, Lya,” Brandon had said, rumpling her hair. “Wait for me. But don’t wait too much.”

“But you’ll come see me? After tomorrow?”

Brandon had pinched her cheek. “I’ll always come see my Lya.”

Lyanna fidgeted on her stack of crates. She wanted to scamper about and chase birds. Or wheedle another cream cake from Gage, who was Gared the cook’s grandson. Or perhaps watch Brandon and Ned drill with wooden swords in the yard. Or visit her new pony.

But this had become her habit, waiting for Mother to arrive from a hunt.

Mother loved to hawk and hunt. Thrice a moon’s turn Mother would ride out from the Hunter’s Gate with her cousin Lady Arrana of House Flint of the mountains, Martyn Cassel, and twelve other men. Twice a moon’s turn Father would join them for Father also loved to hunt. He and Mother could spend three dinner courses talking about hunting, and hunting weapons, and splendid tapestries of the hunt arriving in White Harbor.

Lyanna loved to perch near Hunter’s Gate and wait for Mother’s return. Lyanna always waited, thrice a moon’s turn. Lyanna had taken to waiting as long as she could remember that by now she knew what to expect: one of the hunting men would shout, then the gates would be drawn open. The first to enter would be Martyn Cassel with three guardsmen, then Lady Arrana with her wild chip-toothed grin. She would be closely followed by Mother. When Father joined them he would be riding beside Mother. Last trailed the rest of the party with the hunt amongst them.

A chilled snow-streaked wind blew. Lyanna huddled into her furs. Her scraped knee smarted with pain again. If she moved in a particular way it wouldn’t hurt so. But Lyanna didn’t mind. She’d had scrapes all over.

Yesterday she’d urged Brandon to teach her with wooden swords in the godswood. Halfway through the afternoon they had stopped the lessons on how to hold and swing a sword: they’d thought of a game. Lyanna was a sellsword with a precious blade, and Brandon was a pirate chasing her. They had torn through the godswood, cackling, until Lyanna tripped on a root and landed on a rock.

The skin on her knee had dangled like a scratched out, damp paper. Lyanna had winced but she had been fascinated by the fleshy bloody bits. 

Brandon had stopped laughing and pointing when he saw. “Gods!” he’d yelled, and had started fretting. “Don’t touch it!”

Her eldest brother seemed scared of scrapes. He was always like that. Lyanna even had blurry memories when she was much younger and still toddling. Brandon always held her hand.

But Brandon didn’t tell Father that Lyanna was practising with a wooden sword, and Lyanna didn’t tell Mother that Brandon was not practising with his numbers. Father once said that only the weirwood knew all the secrets of a Stark. Brandon and Lyanna were each other’s weirwoods.

Old Nan’s beady eye sought out Lyanna again. Lyanna beamed at her and tapped her fingers on the crate. She was thinking of bringing Benjen a cream cake later, after she played a chase game with Brandon when a shout rang from outside.

Lyanna’s head snapped up. Her hat wobbled.

The kitchen workers and kennel hands and washerwomen were gathering around as the gates creaked open. 

Lyanna sat up straight, gripped at the crate with both hands, and craned her neck just as Martyn Cassel came riding through the gates, flanked by three guardsmen, one of them bearing the flapping banner of a grey direwolf on white.

Lady Arrana rode in next, her beaded braids swinging in the wind and dead birds swinging by her saddle. She saw Lyanna and shot her a grin.

But Lyanna was barely paying attention. She was holding her breath for _there_ , at last, rode Mother with Father beside her.

Cheers came up all around Lyanna. She craned some more, now holding on to her hat with both hands, and shouted with the rest of them.

Mother’s long dark hair was plaited beneath her dark grey hat, and snow glimmered amongst the furs of her cloak. On her face was a smile, wide and crooked. A pack of crossbow arrows was strung up with her saddle. Lyanna knew that though Mother didn’t know how to wield a sword, she could still hunt with lance and crossbow and sometimes mace. She once told Lyanna that half of what made a good hunter was being a good rider. She was everything Lyanna hoped to grow up to be, and Lyanna also wanted to learn how to wield a sword.

Father had a small smile on his face when he turned to look at Mother.

He and Mother both had the dark hair, grey eyes, and long faces of the Starks, and both of them rarely smiled widely. But as Lyanna watched, Father nudged his horse closer to Mother’s and said something which made Mother laugh and Father’s small smile turn into a small grin.

They really loved hunting, Lyanna thought. She gleefully yelled with all the cheers clamouring in the crisp morning air. 

“Stark!” the cheers boomed. “Winterfell!”

They also went, “Lady Lyarra! Lord Rickard!”

“Mother!” Lyanna shouted happily, wriggling on her perch. “Father!”

“Lyanna!” Father drew up beside Lyanna’s stack of crates. “Stop squirming. You might fall. What is that on your face?”

Lyanna stared up at Father’s and Mother’s looming figures, absently swiping at her face. When she glanced at her hand it was full of cream and crumbs.

Behind his beard and whiskers, Father’s lips twitched into a smile. “How many cakes did you eat?”

“More than one,” Lyanna said. “I forgot.”

Mother chuckled. “Tom,” she called out to the kennel master. “If you would fetch my daughter.”

Lyanna found herself lifted under her arms and deposited on Mother’s saddle. 

“What will we have for the feast, Mother?” Lyanna asked, peering up at Mother’s face.

“Elk,” said Mother, “and boar. Partridges as well. Won’t you like partridge pie?”

Lyanna would, but she was mostly thrilled to be on a real horse. And it was warm and comfortable here, near Mother’s furs and leathers. “With wolfberries? And cheese?”

“Of course.” Mother lifted a gloved hand from her reins and adjusted Lyanna’s hat. “But Ned doesn’t like wolfberries mixed with cheese. So we have to have him baked a separate partridge pie.”

*

“I’m bored of chasing games,” Lyanna complained to Brandon. She promptly slumped down on the mossy godswood earth. 

“You only say that because I always win,” Brandon laughed.

It wasn’t fair. Brandon was twelve now, taller than Lyanna remembered. He had longer legs so he always outran or caught her. He kept winning. According to their rules, for each win Lyanna had to reward him with a sugar cake or a cherry from her own pile. Earlier they had snuck into the kitchens, sniggering madly as they stuffed their clothes with cherries and sugar cakes, and then had divided the loot into two piles.

And now Brandon won again.

Brandon sprawled beside her on the ground. He handed Lyanna two sugar cakes. Pleased, Lyanna sat still when he leaned his head on her shoulder.

“You wait till I grow taller,” Lyanna grumbled as she chomped on the cakes. “Or – till I learn how to ride a horse. Not a pony! But a real horse.”

“The day of doom,” Brandon said. “Quiver! Tremble!”

Riding was absolutely thrilling. Lyanna’s new pony was lovely, too. The pony trotted when Lyanna wanted to trot and cantered smoothly when Lyanna wanted to canter. But Hullen, the master of horse, said that ponies couldn’t keep up with horses.

“You’re an exceptional rider for your age, aye. Can’t be doubted,” Hullen had told Lyanna. “But you will only mount a horse when it’s time.”

So Lyanna had patted her pony. Her pony had no name yet, but it never let her down.

“All right.” Brandon shrugged easily and reached over to mess with her hair. “So you don’t want to play chasing games anymore?”

Lyanna chewed and shook her head, wiping her sticky hands on her dress. She wistfully narrowed her eyes at Brandon’s newly large cherry pile.

“We can race,” Brandon suggested, and paused to give her a handful of cherries. “East Gate to the stables.”

They raced from the East Gate to the stables. They were screaming and cackling as they ran, the snow-tipped wind streaking past Lyanna’s hair and cheeks. Several people of Winterfell dodged and dived out of their path and called out to them, and the candle-makers laughingly told Lyanna to wipe her face.

Lyanna skidded to a stop after Brandon. She growled and stamped her foot, but she still found herself grinning up at him. She had missed him.

“You have to grow taller first, little sister,” Brandon said, grinning and rumpling her hair again as Lyanna made a face. 

He gave her two sugar cakes and three cherries. “Best wipe your face. It’s time for your numbers with Mother.”

Lyanna hauled up the hem of her dress and used it to wipe her face. Brandon snickered, making flapping gestures. “Off you go. You’ll be late.”

“Another race!” Lyanna shouted at him over her shoulder as she ran. “Later!”

When Lyanna arrived in Mother’s study in the Great Keep, she found Mother mending a quill whilst listening to Ned talk. 

“Robert said I can have a place in his household,” Ned was quietly saying, “when he becomes Lord of Storm’s End. I told him that before I accept I will do my best to earn it.”

There was a brief and small smile on Mother’s face before she nodded approvingly. “He seems a good friend.”

It seemed like he was all Ned could talk about, this new friend, during Ned’s two visits home in three years. How funny Robert was, and how strong, and how tall, and how kind. How Robert wished to come visit Winterfell one day.

“How tall is he?” Lyanna had asked last night, during Mother’s name day feast. “You keep saying he’s really tall.”

“And funny,” Ned had added with a faint smile. “Really funny. He’s Brandon’s age but he’s taller. Much taller.”

Lyanna had frowned. “Brandon’s tall and funny.”

“Yes,” Ned had said, “but Robert is really tall. I’m up to Brandon’s ears but Robert is a good head or so taller than I am. And, well, I think they’re equally funny.”

They had been interrupted when Mother told Ned that he had a separate partridge pie without cheese, which had made Ned’s face brighten into one of his rare beaming smiles. 

She knew that Mother and Father loved her brothers and Lyanna well. Mother and Father told them so. But she also thought that Brandon was Father’s favourite because he was the eldest. Benjen was barely older than a baby so he was everyone’s favourite. Brandon always said that Lyanna was Brandon’s favourite. 

And Ned was Mother’s favourite. Lyanna once heard Mother tell Lady Arrana that Ned was a calming presence. How sweet and gentle Ned was. Lyanna agreed with Mother. Ned was the quietest in the family, and though he could be funny Ned only japed with Lyanna and their brothers.

“Lady Lyanna, m’lady,” Will the guardsman announced now.

Ned turned in his seat. “Lya,” he greeted her with a soft smile. 

Mother’s shoulders were shaking with quiet laughter as she surveyed Lyanna. “Oh, my little love.” She put her chin on her fingers and addressed one of her ladies, the other person in the room. “Bridget. Assist my daughter to a clean dress, if you would, and a wet towel for her face.”

Bridget, who was Gage’s wife, stood up from her sewing and bowed. “Lady Stark,” she murmured to Mother, and offered Lyanna her hand. 

The corridors of the Great Keep echoed with age and grey shadows, and Lyanna imagined that if she listened hard enough she could hear the coursing of hot springs warming the walls. Stretches of the dark grey walls were covered with tapestries of northern environs, or depictions of the old Kings of Winter, Lyanna’s own kingly ancestors going back thousands of years, lifetimes upon lifetimes before the Targaryen Conquest when the Targaryens became kings. Some other stretches were draped with the banners of Stark’s snarling direwolf. Lyanna revelled in them. This was home.

Around a turn in the corridor they came across Lady Arrana, Torna the kennel master’s daughter, and several other ladies laden with sheets of wool and linen. 

Lady Arrana beheld Lyanna, then threw back her head and laughed.

“What have you been doing child?” asked Lady Arrana as she approached them, a length of wool in her arms. When Lyanna only fidgeted, Lady Arrana looked inquiringly at Bridget.

“Lady Stark asked that Lady Lyanna be changed into clean clothes before their lessons.”

Lady Arrana grinned. “Come along, then. I will have a rest from all the winter sewing. And it would be quicker if there were two of us.”

It was tiring. They wanted Lyanna to sit still. But Lyanna wanted to train her legs for races so she raced around her bedchamber. Lady Arrana finally managed to catch her and stuff her into a clean dress.

“How do I grow taller?”

“You sit still.” Lady Arrana put both of her hands on Lyanna’s shoulders. “Bridget, the comb, please.”

“Brandon doesn’t sit still. He told me he rides around the Rills.”

Lady Arrana started to disentangle Lyanna’s windblown plait. “They said milk is good for the bones.” When her hands came away from Lyanna’s tumbled hair, there were globs of red and cream on her fingers. “What have you been eating? What is this in your hair?”

“Brandon and I ate cherries and sugar cakes,” Lyanna admitted.

When they returned to Mother’s study, Lady Arrana announced, “Lyanna appears to have stuffed herself with sugar and fruit this morning, my lady.”

Ned had already gone out to drill with Brandon. Mother gestured for Lyanna to sit on the carved chair Ned had occupied, but for the great part of their lessons Mother let Lyanna pace and skip about the room.

Mother said that keeping accounts and running a household was challenging work. Lyanna thought that moving around a chamber whilst counting figures was nice. She only sat down to write portions of coins and sums, and to eat the food brought up at noon.

In the end Lyanna was suddenly feeling tired and sleepy.

“Close your eyes and rest,” Mother told her, so Lyanna lay down on the rug and closed her eyes.

When Lyanna blinked them open, she saw that Mother’s reading lamp was no longer lighted and there were voices near the fire.

“ – sent me a polite correspondence,” Mother was saying quietly, “about how her son Robert is very much enthusiastic about Ned’s company. I can show it to you later.”

The answering gruff chuckle was Father’s. “Good. Sometimes I think Eddard is much too quiet. Too serious.”

Lyanna heard liquid pouring into a cup. Mother and Father often talked and poured each other drinks by the fire. Mother once said that she and Father were very good friends and fond of each other. 

Lyanna didn’t often hear their talks, though.

“Oh, let him be,” Mother said in her usual brisk way. “Ned is shy and a bit awkward. Remember old Sansa? My father said that it’s said that she was also quiet as a child.”

“The most snarling she-wolf, aye.” Father paused, sounding as if sipping his drink. “The world has its marvels.”

Lyanna blinked her eyes to clear them of the blurriness. 

Mother continued, “Ned has a good head on his shoulders. I give him that. However, now that I think about it – if only he were a daughter and Arryn’s cup-bearer – well.”

“You’d push for a betrothal with Robert Baratheon,” Father said.

“They seem fond of each other.”

“Aye,” agreed Father. “Alas. But we have Lyanna.”

Lyanna frowned. She closed her eyes but listened intently, gripping at the furs of the rug.

Someone put down a jug on a table.

Mother hummed. She had a smoky voice, and Lyanna always looked forward to hearing it. But right now Lyanna could feel a growing nervousness even as Mother only said, “Hoster Tully has two daughters. The older one is near Brandon’s age, yes?”

“Just so,” Father said, slowly. “I think that would be best for Brandon. A lord paramount’s daughter, and to a region very close to the North. If I manage to convince Lord Tully, that is.”

“You will,” Mother said. “I’m certain. Brandon is your heir. You have good relations with Lord Arryn, your second son his ward for three years now. This second son is also forging friendship with the next Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Hoster Tully can have his other daughter for his vassals.”

A few moments of silence, then Father said, “Brandon with a Tully. Lyanna possibly with a Baratheon.”

“Lyanna could be the next Lady of Storm’s End,” Mother said. “I think you ought to secure Lyanna with Baratheon before you approach Tully. That would sway more favour for Brandon.”

“I will, to be sure,” said Father. “Keen, my lady.”

There was a wet sound.

Mother laughed. “The lord’s slobber on my rings.”

“Forgive this slovenly yet gallant lord, my lady,” Father murmured. “Allow me to wipe your hand.”

Lyanna heard rushing rustling sounds, rather like icy winds through ironwood trees. She realised that the sounds were Mother’s and Father’s quiet wolfish laughter, the both of them, stern Father and brisk Mother, laughing like Lyanna had never heard before.

At last Mother said, “Ned was just telling me how young Robert offered him a place in Storm’s End.”

“I would prefer it if Eddard married someone from the Vale,” Father said, “if we can secure Baratheon for Lyanna. But – I concede that young Robert’s offer might keep Eddard’s marriage prospects open.”

“It might,” Mother said, and Lyanna could hear a smile in Mother’s briskness. “That far south. He can have someone from the Stormlands or the Reach. Even Dorne.”

“The Reach are staunchly for Targaryen,” Father said in a quieter voice. “The Tyrells are, considering.”

A beat later and Mother said, just as quietly, “Indeed.”

All of these was making Lyanna very nervous. They were talking about her place, and her brothers’. She curled in on herself, shivering, even with all the warmth of Winterfell around her. Would Mother and Father ask Lyanna if she liked it? Why were they talking about Lyanna being with Ned’s friend? Lyanna doubted that Ned’s friend was funnier and taller than Brandon.

In her former volume Mother said, “I suppose Tywin Lannister will be aiming his daughter for the prince.”

“No doubt,” Father said. “Still, his lady is with child. We will see. Benjen, though, best marry within the North.”

“A Manderly, perhaps. If they had a daughter born,” said Mother. “Or whichever Northern House the situation will require.”

*

When Lyanna dashed out from Mother’s study she found Brandon waiting for her by the stables like he had promised. After their race from the stables to the East Gate, they pretended to be adventurers and roamed the glass gardens, and the guard house, and the guest house, and the armory, and finally the godswood.

“I’m tired,” Brandon said.

Lyanna threw herself beneath the weirwood. Brandon sprawled next to her, half leaning against her shoulder as he panted. Lyanna patted his hair. He seemed to like that because he rested his head on her shoulder. 

“When you were little you used to pull at my hair,” Brandon informed her.

Lyanna pulled at his hair now. The tufts of Brandon’s hair between her fingers were almost as dark as the tall, tall trees curving over them and the smooth pool in front of them, as dark as Lyanna’s hair.

“I’m really tired,” Brandon sighed into the silence. “Maester Walys will want to continue our lessons on the laws. Then early tomorrow morning Father will test me.”

“Poor Brandon,” Lyanna said, smacking a kiss on top of his head. She sat still so that Brandon could rest. “It’s because you’re the eldest.”

“I know.” Brandon’s breathing was starting to calm now. “There’s so much to know. It’s not easy. It really is not easy. Do you know, Father asked Lord Dustin to let me be the one to chop off a hunt’s head? It’s training for the king’s justice. I had to chop off boars’ heads, and an aurochs, and goats and sheep.” Brandon counted with his fingers. “I had to do it with one clean stroke. They had me start with the sheep.”

“You always know what to do,” Lyanna encouraged. “And Mother said that the Lords of Winterfell and the Kings of Winter before them didn’t have to do it all alone.”

“Mother said the same to me.” 

Lyanna continued petting his hair. “Let’s play dragons and maidens.”

“All right,” Brandon said. “Let me rest for a bit. I’m tired.”

“You can lean on me when you’re tired,” Lyanna told him.

That late afternoon just before dinner, Lyanna and her brothers were gathered in Brandon and Ned’s bedchamber.

It had been so long since all four of them played together, so long ago since both Brandon and Ned had visited at the same time. 

For their plays, Brandon would always get terribly bossy. Lyanna thought it came with being the eldest. But she was all right with it because Brandon always listened to Lyanna’s ideas anyway. Brandon was their pack leader, and in their adventures he always knew what to do: be it sneaking treats from the kitchens, or how to play chase in a hot spring.

Brandon would also often tease Ned, but it was a good fun teasing. He would sneak up on Ned and startle him, which would lead to a chase and a wrestle. Brandon wouldn’t let anyone else tease Ned, though. Also, Brandon would always be by Ned’s side whenever they had guests or during those times Father had taken them both to a bannerman’s castle. Ned could get very nervous around new people so Brandon would always be certain to not let Ned face new people alone.

Right now Brandon was on his knees and elbows, pretending to be a horse whilst Lyanna sat atop him. Lyanna was pretending to be a grown woman who looked like Mother. 

“To the gates!” Lyanna yelled. She swung her imaginary sword and slashed the air. “Crash through the gates, horse!”

“Horsey crashing through the gates!” Brandon yelled back. He made rocking motions. Lyanna gripped at his tunic, shouting her charging cry as she imagined herself and the horse’s armoured forms splintering the gates.

“To the tower, horse!” Lyanna commanded. “I must rescue the maiden!”

“The dragon is keeping the treasures and the maiden,” Brandon said.

“Quickly, quickly,” Lyanna urged him. “I shall be dis – dist – distraught if I fail my lady!”

Brandon snorted. “Who’s your lady?”

Lyanna nudged his side with her ankle. “Quiet, horse! Keep galloping.”

Ned laughed from where he was sitting on the rug with Ben. “Yes, keep galloping.”

Ben shrieked, “Gallop! Gallop!” and toothily smiled up at Ned.

Eventually through Lyanna’s yells and cackles, Brandon’s neighing shouts, Ned’s laughter, and Ben’s shrieks, they were summoned to supper.

Lyanna and Brandon swung their joined hands as they walked to Father’s solar.

“There’s no one to play horsey with me in Barrowton,” Brandon was saying with inflated sorrow. “Even in the Rills. And in horse races I always win.”

“I’ll come to the Rills and race with you,” Lyanna said. 

Brandon grinned down at her and rumpled her hair. “I was about to say that.”

“Hullen says I’m good,” Lyanna added, feeling her face grin to match Brandon’s. “Are there really no riders better than you?”

“I don’t know about the grown ones,” Brandon said. “But I am better than Willam Dustin and the Ryswell lads. There’s a girl who likes to join us. Barbrey Ryswell. She can ride well enough, and pretty too, but I thought, not as pretty as my Lya.”

They both snickered at that. Lyanna wrapped both of her arms around his waist just as she felt Brandon put an arm around her shoulder. They entered Father’s solar like that, waddling along like a four-legged creature and pretending to talk to each other in squeaky noises.

“Quack, quack quack quack?” Brandon said meaningfully.

“Quack,” Lyanna agreed. “Quacky quacky quacker quack.”

Ned burst into giggles behind them.

Supper barely started when Ben started hacking before he vomited. Everyone in the room was alarmed for a brief moment before they realised that he had only put a stray button in his mouth earlier. 

“Madge,” Mother said to a serving woman, “escort Benjen to Old Nan.”

Lyanna knew that Mother did not like children’s messes. Mother did not like birthing and nursing, did not like bathing babes and mopping up drool. Whenever Lyanna or her brothers fell ill, Mother would visit and tell stories but she wasn’t the one who would wring a washcloth over a basin and wipe their foreheads nor would she spoon broth into their mouths.

She would kiss their ill foreheads, though. And Mother often brushed Lyanna’s hair.

“A raven arrived from my sister,” Mother was saying to Father. “Branda tells me that the Hand’s lady wife has passed away. A week ago. Childbirth. Apparently the babe is a deformed imp.”

Lyanna looked up from her place in the table. She was sitting next to Brandon, who was sitting next to Father. Father was across from Mother, and beside Mother sat Ned.

“Pity,” Father said, as he vigorously cut off a piece of his stuffed fish. “Lord Lannister shall keep the child, I presume?”

“A son.” Mother glanced at Ned politely helping himself to a second bowl of soup. She nudged the tureen closer to Ned. “Branda says that Lady Baratheon thinks so.”

Father twirled his fork. “It would not be easy to arrange fostering or marriage for such a son.”

“He’ll always be home?” Lyanna piped up. “The babe?”

Mother and Father and her brothers looked at her. Lyanna shovelled a forkful of partridge pie in her mouth and repeated her question. Brandon was grinning as he brushed away bits of pie from her chin.

“Most probably,” said Father. “If he survived infancy the babe could serve his brother’s household in Casterly Rock.”

“He’s a lucky one,” Lyanna decided. “He will always be home. Ned shall be away. Even Brandon, for a while.”

There was a faint smile on Ned’s face. “All of us will be away from Winterfell, Lya, except for Brandon.”

Lyanna frowned. “Why? I won’t be away.”

They were all looking at her with small gentle smiles. It was very puzzling, so Lyanna just ate more partridge pie and sucked cheese from the tines of her fork.

“Your brother is right, Lyanna,” said Mother. “Winterfell will be Brandon’s. He will be Lord Paramount and Warden of the North. Or he could also be summoned to serve in the king’s Small Council during better times.”

“During better times,” Father softly agreed.

“Ned will go south,” Mother continued. “He could serve in Storm’s End or whichever castle fortune finds him. Why, he could even enter the Citadel.” Mother briefly smiled at Ned. “Benjen will stay in the North, to marry a lady of a Northern House or to serve in the Night’s Watch. You, Lyanna, will marry a great lord and manage his household. What did I tell you about accounts –”

“Or?” Lyanna said.

Mother’s lips twitched disapprovingly.

Lyanna persisted, “Where’s my or, Mother?” She looked around the table. “Mother?”

Where _was_ Lyanna’s or? All her brothers had ors. Even Brandon, who would inherit Winterfell without question, who was born to inherit Winterfell, had an or: he could be summoned to serve the king’s Small Council in better times.

Lyanna _might_ marry a great lord, or she could be a knight. Or a hunter. Or she could serve in Brandon’s household in Winterfell, as a knight or a hunter, as Brandon’s protector.

“Don’t interrupt, Lyanna,” Mother said briskly. “As I was saying. What did I tell you about accounts? You need to learn how to run your lord husband’s household. All of you shall go to your own households while Winterfell goes to Brandon.”

Lyanna was not liking this. “My lord husband can come here.”

Father chuckled. “Your husband will be a lord with his own castle, Lyanna. You shall go there.”

The fork was very cold. Lyanna was gripping it very hard. She turned to Brandon. “I love Winterfell. I _don’t_ want to go.”

“Lyanna.” Father put down his cup. “You shall need to go where your lord husband is. Your mother is right. You need to be where your lord husband’s castle is in order to manage it as well as his lands and –”

“Brandon!” Lyanna said loudly. “I’ll marry Brandon. Winterfell goes to Brandon so we shall marry so I will only need to go to Winterfell!”

“You can’t,” came Ned’s quiet voice. “You’re siblings.”

“Mother was born a Stark,” Lyanna said, confused.

“I am your father’s first cousin once removed,” Mother said in firm tones. Her mouth was set in a stern line, and her eyes were narrowed at Lyanna. “Siblings shouldn’t marry. No more of this nonsense, Lyanna.”

Lyanna flung her fork on her plate. “I’ll marry Brandon! Then I can stay here, and he needs to lean on me when he’s tired and we can race horses and _I can stay here_.”

Why couldn’t they see? Lyanna had always known that Winterfell would belong to Brandon, and now Ned had been offered a place with his friend, and even Benjen could choose. Lyanna wanted to rule Winterfell with Brandon, she wanted to help him and let him know he didn’t need to do it alone. Lyanna wanted to be like Brandon Snow to Brandon’s Torrhen Stark, she’d thought about it ever since she’d heard Mother and Father talk near the fire. Lyanna wanted to be home. She wanted to race horses in the snow, and hunt like Mother, and become a patron like one of those Stark ladies in her lessons, except Lyanna would be a patron for Northern tapestries and songs. Lyanna wanted to be in Winterfell where the Kings of Winter had ruled.

“Lyanna,” sighed Father.

She desperately turned to Brandon. “Please don’t send me away.”

Brandon looked like he got his toes trampled on. “Of course I won’t –”

“Brandon, that’s enough,” Mother said sharply.

“I want to be home,” Lyanna insisted. “I want to be home, I want to be home, I want to be home –”

“Lyanna,” Father said, raising his voice. “We shall speak of this when you’re older.”

“No!” she shouted. She grabbed her fork and stabbed it in her pie. Bits and pieces flew up. The pie was shaking before it fell apart with each stab and the copper plate was shaking as it scraped against the table, and Lyanna was shaking with fury. Lyanna stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.

“No! No! No!” she screamed and screamed.

Somehow all of them were standing now. Mother’s and Father’s voices were raised. The pie became so crumpled and ruined that the fork couldn’t stab in it, so Lyanna started stabbing the table.

The tines snagged on the wood. Lyanna snarled, her arm coiling tighter, as she used all her might to stab and stab the table as easily as she stabbed the pie. “No! No!”

Someone pulled at her. Lyanna raged. When she flailed and hit the person with her elbow, she heard Brandon’s grunt.

“Lya! Stop it!” he kept saying. “Lya, please!”

Brandon caught her hand with the fork and before she knew it, he had an arm clamped around her waist. Lyanna strained and scratched at his arms, digging in her nails, screaming and screaming. She was so angry.

“Come along, Lya,” said Brandon. He managed to pry the fork from her fingers. Ned quickly snatched it. 

Lyanna glimpsed Ned’s stricken face before Brandon hauled her away from the forks and knives and bundled her out of the solar.

“Come along, Lya,” Brandon repeated. “It’ll be just the two of us. Won’t that be nice?”

That would be nice, Lyanna thought distractedly. 

They passed through corridors in silence, she and Brandon. He had an arm around her shoulders and his other hand was clutching one of hers. Brandon did not drag her along to wherever they were going, so Lyanna could feel her anger fading into something less wild.

When they entered her bedchamber Lyanna didn’t feel like stabbing things with a fork anymore. She only felt like bashing things with her cup. Like the other day, when she and Brandon crushed cherries and wolfberries with cups and pretended that they were First Men making bloody offerings to the old gods.

Lyanna jumped onto her bed and punched her pillow.

Brandon climbed onto the bed as well. He fluffed up her other pillow before laying his head on it.

Then they were quiet. 

Lyanna kept crushing and pinching portions of her pillow, and Brandon was twirling a corner of her other pillow. It was very nice. Lyanna loved this. 

“When you were a baby,” Brandon said, “Mother and Old Nan loved it when I played with you. They said you never fussed when we play, and that I wasn’t so mischievous. We played a lot.”

Lyanna knew that. Mother and Old Nan had told her of the same thing. She and Brandon were always together before he was sent to foster in Barrowton.

And now Lyanna knew that she would be sent away to someplace, too.

“I don’t want to marry some stupid lord,” Lyanna spat out. “Lady Arrana isn’t married.”

“True, she doesn’t want to, but she’s lucky with her wish,” Brandon said. “Lady Arrana rarely has her moon blood and can’t bear children so she can’t marry.”

“I wish I was like her,” Lyanna decided.

Brandon frowned. “Don’t say that.”

Lyanna punched her pillow again.

Brandon took her hand and gently squeezed it. “Whoever your husband will be, if he hurts you or dishonours you, tell me and I will kill him.”

Lyanna considered this. “I can kill him. I can stab him with a fork. Like pie.”

This made Brandon laugh. “We could do it together then.”

They could. They always did everything together.

Nodding, Lyanna added, “Then I can come back to Winterfell.”

Why couldn’t Mother and Father understand? Lyanna just wanted an or, too. Besides Brandon would need to protect all of the North when the time came, as Lord Paramount and Warden of the North, and who would protect Brandon? Ned would be far south with his new friend and Ben was a baby. Who else would protect Brandon if not Lyanna?

With a gusty sigh, Lyanna said, “I wish we could marry each other. Everything would be easier.”

“It would,” Brandon agreed, matching Lyanna with a sigh of his own. “It’s the perfect thing to do. We can’t, though.”

Lyanna brooded. They kept holding hands.

“Anyway,” Brandon said at length, “I’m certain there will be ways around that. When we’re older we can learn how to make it to be so that you can come stay in Winterfell.”

“Really?” Lyanna lay down beside him.

“I am to be Lord of Winterfell after Father.” Brandon squeezed their hands again. “Betrothals can’t be broken. But when we grow older we can know about going around details. Men and women grown know a lot.”

“That’s good,” Lyanna said. Brandon always knew what to do.

A comforting calm was settling in Lyanna at that thought. At the reminder that Brandon would always know what to do. She tucked her feet under her dress and tucked herself closer to Brandon, like she always did during naptimes before he got sent to Barrowton.

“I want to be home,” Lyanna said. “I can help you if I’m home.”

“I want you to be home, too. But we can all help Winterfell wherever we are.” Brandon reached down with his empty hand and tugged up the furs over both of them. “Just wait till we can know about going around details so you can come stay. And Ned will be far away. Ben could be, too. They can still help Winterfell.”

“Ben will stay in the North,” Lyanna said. “Didn’t the stories say the pack survives? Not the lone wolf. The pack survives.”

Brandon was silent for a long moment that Lyanna thought he had fallen asleep. But when she lifted her head, also wondering if she could sneak into the kitchens for food, she found Brandon staring at something far away.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I was thinking about it.” A corner of Brandon’s lips twitched up. “Don’t worry, Lya. I will take care of it.”

*

Mother’s shadow loomed grey on the white snow in the yard.

“An early riser,” she remarked to Lyanna. 

Lyanna knew she would. It was a day for a hunt, and just as Lyanna knew what to expect on Mother’s arrivals she also knew what to expect on Mother’s departures.

“I want to see my pony,” said Lyanna. She had decided to name her pony after Brandon.

Mother finished putting on her gloves. She glanced behind her to where Lady Arrana was waiting by the saddled horses before peering down at Lyanna. Mother’s regard was brisk as she seemingly took in everything about Lyanna from her lopsided hat to her feet.

“It is colder today,” Mother finally said. “Straighten your hat. Over your ears. That’s it. Tell Ned to keep Benjen away from buttons. Do you hear, Lyanna?”

Lyanna nodded, shivering under her furs. It was colder today. But no announcement about winter had arrived from the south.

“Yes, Mother.”

“And,” Mother said, “tell Brandon to keep you away from sugar cakes.”

“All sugar cakes?”

A corner of Mother’s lips tugged up. “You can have one. Only one. Do you hear, Lyanna?”

“Yes, Mother,” Lyanna said, and she was about to lunge forward for a quick hug around Mother’s middle, like she always did, when she hesitated. Mother had not been pleased with how Lyanna behaved the other night. And Mother wanted to send Lyanna away.

Before Lyanna could dither on whether to continue with her lunging hug, Mother was already turning away. 

Lyanna watched Mother’s brisk strides to the horses and the rest of the party. She watched them ride out of the Hunter’s Gate and into the gloom beyond. It was colder, so Lyanna shuffled back to the entrance hall of the Great Keep, thinking. She still wanted to wait for Mother’s return. She still dreamed of growing up to be like Mother, but she wouldn’t send anyone away from Winterfell. Lyanna would give all of them an or.

Later, as she was breaking her fast with Father and her brothers, a sudden strong gust of wind darkened the windows.

Father abruptly stood up, frowning. “Snowstorm,” he murmured.

Lyanna’s fingertips twitched. They were cold. She withdrew them from her plate and tucked them in her dress as she watched Father clatter out of the solar.

“It must be an unexpected one,” Brandon pronounced in the silence. Lyanna heard a touch of worry in his voice which made her worry. On the other side of the table, Ned's face was beginning to crumple.

“Maester Walys has said nothing,” Brandon continued. “Even Hullen, and Hullen is always right about the weather.”

The storm lasted for several minutes. Everyone in the castle was shut in: there were no washerwomen in the yards, no boys and men drilling, no kitchen hands unloading carts with produce, no Lyanna on a stack of crates.

But finally the storm ended as soon as it began.

Brandon joined her by a window of the library tower. It had the clearest view of the Hunter’s Gate.

Clear enough that they saw it burst open with Martyn Cassel pelting past, alone.

“What’s happening?” Lyanna said. She could hear something strange in her voice.

Brandon put an arm around her shoulders. When she glanced up at his face, Lyanna thought it looked as stern as Father’s and Mother’s could be, and his lips were pale.

Down below, Father was already mounting a horse and rushing out with Martyn Cassel, their hooves raising drifts of snow in their haste.

This was not supposed to happen. Lyanna knew what to expect. It didn't happen like this.

“What’s happening?” Lyanna said again.

She felt Brandon reassuringly rub her shoulder. “The hunting party must be stuck beyond a large heap of snow. It happens with hunters. They can’t get around feet upon feet of snow.”

They peered out of the tower window some more, pressed together side by side.

“Don’t worry,” Brandon said at length, although there was a crease between his brows. “Mother and the rest must be trapped in the snow. They have to pave a way. For the horses and the hunt.”

“Yes,” Lyanna said, taking heart. “Don’t worry.” She reached for his other hand so she could reassure him, too. Lyanna squeezed Brandon’s hand and told him, “Don’t worry.”

After a beat, Lyanna added, “If I was trapped in the snow. I could charge through with my horse. I want to hunt, too. Would the snow be heavier than a gate?”

“Perhaps,” said Brandon. “Heavier and colder.”

Lyanna considered this. She decided she could think about ways to get out of a snow trap so she wouldn’t worry. “I could use a Morningstar. Or a mace. Or – oh! I know! I will ask all the party to light fires then the snow will melt. We could make snow soup!”

Brandon smiled. He was still pale, but he lifted his hand from Lyanna’s shoulder to rumple her hair. “I’ll come get you if you’re trapped out there, Lya.”

“I can dig myself out,” she pointed out.

“I know.” Brandon returned his hand on her shoulder and they stared out of the tower window again. “But a wolf does better with its pack.”

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> When not scrambling for coursework deadlines or daydreaming about fics I'm short on time to write, I'm over at blotsandcreases.tumblr.com sighing happily at all the great things. :)


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